


Anti-Christmas Prompts

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Drabbles, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mostly Fluff, anti-christmas, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:03:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 16,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this started out as a set of prompts that were all based on reasons why I don't really get into Christmas, but somehow, most of them have become fluff. Whoops.</p>
<p>Each chapter is an unrelated drabble unless otherwise noted.</p>
<p>General description of each chapter in the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Gets Worse Every Year

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd nor britpicked, please (kindly) inform me of any errors.  
> Prompts found here: http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com/post/104171389888/anti-christmas-prompts
> 
> I will post any warning at the beginning of each drabble.
> 
> 1\. Decorations - John & Sherlock; Gen  
> 2\. Music In Retail Stores - Jim & Seb; Gen  
> 3\. Christmas Cookies/Biscuits - John, Unilock; TRIGGERS - Suggested MCD, Suicide Attempt, Depression  
> 4\. Family Christmas Parties - John/Sherlock; Gen  
> 5\. Travel - John/Sherlock; Gen  
> 6\. Work Christmas Parties - John/Mycroft; Teen+  
> 7\. Buying Gifts For People You Barely Know - Molly/Greg, Gen  
> 8\. Non-Alcoholic Eggnog - Jim/John, Teen+  
> 9\. Buying Stuff For People You Already Buy Stuff For Anyways - Implied Sherlock/Mycroft, Teen+  
> 10\. Christmas Cards - John/Seb, Mature  
> 11\. Matching Sweaters - John & Sherlock, Uni!lock, Gen  
> 12\. Holiday-Only Volunteers - John & Sherlock, Gen  
> 13\. A Christmas Carol - John/Jim, Teen+  
> 14\. Commercials/Adverts - Mycroft/Greg, Gen  
> 15\. Giant Cars with Big Red Bows - Mycroft/Greg, Gen (Follows #14)  
> 16\. Dead Trees Indoors - Greg/Sherlock, Teen  
> 17\. Holiday Cooking - John & Sherlock, Baker AU, Gen  
> 18\. Children with Mountains of Presents - kid!lock, Gen  
> 19\. Christmas-Themed Programmes – Jolto in Afghanistan, Gen  
> 20\. Peppermint - Jim/Seb, Seb/OC, Mature, WARNINGS - Mild Dub/Con, Graphic Violence  
> 21\. Stockings - John/Sherlock/Lestrade, Gen  
> 22\. T'was the Night Before Christmas - John/Sherlock, Mature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: Decorations

John heard the quiet crackle of a small glass ornament shattering and he turned to see Sherlock pacing, muttering in his head, trying to fit the last pieces of case together. He’d knocked into yet another decorated tree, ruffling the branches and dislocating a bulb from its hanger and causing it to burst on the concrete floor into a tiny explosion of red metallic shine.

“Sherlock, careful!” John admonished.

With an inpatient twist of his head, Sherlock glared crossly at John. “What? I’m trying to _think_! Do kindly _shut up_ ," he snapped.

“I’ll shut up so long as you don’t damage property,” John retorted, pointing to the shattered ornament on the ground near Sherlock’s feet.

“If they had cared about their decorations in the slightest; they’d have cleared this abomination after Christmas.” Sherlock muttered, dismissing the mess.

John scoffed, “After Christmas? Christmas is weeks away!”

“But the decorations have been up for months.” Sherlock made the statement confidently, but John heard the questioning lilt of his voice.

“Yeah, it gets worse every year. But I assure you, it is only the first of December.”

“Say that again.” Sherlock demanded.

“It is the first of December.”

Sherlock’s hand flitted about his head rapidly, then with a sharp “Oh!” he began to run off.

“Sherlock!” John yelled after him.

“Meet me at Bart’s in an hour with a cucumber, a box of borax, and three disposable nappies!” The voice getting softer as the distance grew further.

John sighed deeply. He’d meet Sherlock in an hour, with his ridiculous requests. But first, to find the shop keep. And perhaps, a broom.


	2. Jingle Bell Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: Music In Retail Stores

Jim had barely set foot into the store before back out again, nearly knocking Seb down in the process. “What the hell was that?”

Seb, with his quick instincts, righted himself, and did a quick check of his weapons, “What was what, boss?”

“That infernal noise coming out of that store.”

“Christmas music, sir. I think that particular song is called ‘Santa Baby’”

“Well, that is utter trash,” Jim huffed like an angsty adolescent, “I won’t have it fouling up my shopping trips for weeks on end.”

“Yeah?” Seb asked with a glint in his eye. Boss always had the best plans.

-o-

“DI Lestrade, can you tell us exactly how many retail stores received threats?” The blond reporter in a sharply dressed pants suit asked.

Lestrade looked uncomfortable; press conferences were perhaps the worst part of his job; even dealing with Sherlock Holmes was better than this.

“As far as we can tell, all of them; which is approximately over 41 thousand shops.”

“Were there any other demands?” Another reporter, a balding man in his forties, jumped in.

“No, just the one - that no Christmas music is to be played until December 15th; under threat of ‘punishment,’” Lestrade paused, and before the next question came, he answered it, “And no, we are currently unaware of what that punishment would be.”

-o-

John and Sherlock watched the footage from the second crime scene, where thankfully, the security footage was recorded far enough away from the store front itself. A thickly set man; quickly identified as a drug runner turned police informant, walked in, then stood uncomfortably in the middle of the store, and started to sing. The footage was silent, but the fleeing eyewitness accounts gave them enough to be able to read the man’s lips as he sang:

_Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock,_

_Jingle bells swing and jingle bells ring_

_Snowing and blowing-_

And the footage cut off; as the semtex vest hidden under the man’s coat took down the shop and the four stories above it.

-o-

“Just the two shops were enough, Boss.”

“A shame, that. I’ve still got seven traitors to deal with.”

“Holmes can’t prove it’s you.”

“A silver lining, in everything, I suppose.” Jim smiled, as he swiveled his hips, arms raised, grinding methodically, and loudly singing over the lyrics to one of his favorite songs.

_He's a super freak, super freak_

_He's super-freaky, yow_

_Everybody sing_

_Super freak, super freak_


	3. What Morning Will Bring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: Christmas Cookies/Biscuits
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide Attempt, Depression, Ambiguous Ending!
> 
> These prompts are all separate, so you can totally skip this one if it bothers you!!

John lay on his bed, eyes closed, mind dancing through all the things that have gone wrong. With his parents passed, and his only family Harry, he can’t decide whether he regrets not giving her the money she asked for, knowing it only supported her addiction, or if he should have given her the benefit of the doubt, even if meant enabling her. Either way, he was no longer welcome to Harry and Clara’s for Christmas.

He was too proud to ask help from Stamford, and even though his grades are fine, he can’t help but wallow in the deadness of chest, inviting all the tragedy and meaninglessness into his head. He has no place to go for the holiday break and he wondered how long it would take for someone to recognize he hadn’t left the dormitory at all.

He thinks about the last semester and how, despite his academics, every aspect of his life had fallen to pieces. The rejected engagement from Mary, the abandonment of his father, the subsequent, though, expected death of his mother, and then his father’s suicide. And now, for the lack of 100 quid for booze; he’d lost his sister as well.

A knock on the door raised him from his stupor, and he opened it with two day old pajama pants and six days worth of stubble. A perky but sweet transfer student from down the hallway smiled, ignoring the obvious distress he presented.

“So,” the sweet girl began with a playful timbre, “I thought before I went back to the States, I should give Christmas cookies to the whole floor!”

John looked down to see the shapes of trees and bells and stockings, decorated in festival colors and topped with sprinkles and red cinnamon candies. _The presentation was kind of lovely_ , he thought.

He mustered up a genuine smile for the girl; her intentions were pure; and thanked her, “That is great, Amelia, thank you. I really appreciate that.”

“The frosting is my grandma’s recipe; they are so tasty!” she gushed, and put her hand on his shoulder, the slightest acknowledgement of his disheveled appearance,” I hope you love them as much as I do.”

“I’m sure I will. Thank you, again. It was nice getting to know you.” In truth, they’d hung out in a group maybe twice, but he didn’t have any reason to dislike the girl. “Travel home safe,” he offered, and with a quick goodbye, he shut the door.

He stared at the biscuits, heavily and festively decorated, artfully arranged on a cheap decorative plate, and stared some more. _These biscuits_ , he thought, as he set the plate down on an area he cleared off on his desk _, these biscuits were likely the only gifts he’d get this year_.

And wasn’t that the definition of hopeless.

John ate a biscuit; he felt it was only fair. And Amelia was right; her grandmother’s frosting recipe was delicious. But as he continued to stare at the biscuits, they seemed to mock him. He couldn’t pretend that this only demonstration of thoughtfulness, this gesture of kindness from someone he barely knew, could sustain him and buoy his spirits. He’d been packing a bag to live rough for the month, with nowhere else to go. He realized, thought, that he hadn’t truly packed; two changes of clothes and a toothbrush hardly constituted a well planned thought. He’d mimicked packing, but he’d subconsciously known for weeks what he’d planned on doing instead.

He ate one last cookie, oddly enjoying the taste of the hot cinnamon candy decorations as a compliment to the sugar cookie with its almond frosting, while he gathered the necessary supplies. He pulled out old containers of oxycodone and hydrocodone, one from a rugby injury and the other from a confrontation with a homophobe attacking his sister, alprazolam prescribed after his mother’s death, and diazepam prescribed after his father’s death. He searched the medicine cabinet for a few antihistamines. He poured out the drugs into his palm, roughly twenty pills. He’d read enough accidentally toxicology reports in class to know it might be an effective combination. He reached under Mike’s mattress for his bottle of apple flavored schnapps, a drink John had teased him for, but enjoyed none the less.

He emptied near twenty pills into his onto the desk, and poured a glass of schnapps. If it worked, it’d be ruled accidental; if not; he’d take it as a sign that this wasn’t the way. The true odds were uncertain, but he liked to think it were a fifty-fifty decision for his life. If it were worth living or not. And it felt right; letting the decision be out of his hands.

He smiled, the verdict having been made, and took one last of Amelia’s biscuits, one last indulgence, if this were the end of his life to come. He savored the flavor, the way the biscuit crumbled in his mouth, and with one last deep breath, he tossed all the pills in his mouth and chased it with the glass of schnapps.

It felt good, the soft burn of low alcoholic schnapps, and he finished half the bottle before lying back down in his bed, feeling sleepy and lethargic.

Only morning would tell what the night had brought.


	4. Zero to Sixty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: Family Christmas Parties
> 
> This got a little fluffy for an anti-Christmas prompt... oops.

The Holmes family Christmas party was, at best, tedious, at worst, offensive. John was accustomed to the Holmesian manner of insulting compliments from Sherlock and Mycroft, but the rest of the family just settled for insults. As both a decorated veteran and accomplished surgeon; he was completely unprepared this type of blatant disrespect.

John felt his patience dissipating by the second; it was only a matter of time before he snapped and chinned one of these pompous stuffed shirts, but he knew Sherlock’s relationships here were tenuous at best, and his mother was one of the few people whose opinion mattered to him.

John could endure this abuse, for the sake of his best friend staying in the continued good graces of his mother. But he did walk over to Sherlock, and whisper in the man’s ear, “I can’t take much more of this; how much longer?”

Sherlock checked his watch, and groaned, “Forty-five more minutes ought to satisfy Mother.”

John grimaced, and Sherlock looked thoughtful. He leaned into John, and mysteriously murmured, “Just go with it,” before stalking off.

Within moments, the lights dimmed, and the candlelight gave the room a romantic glow. Sherlock stood by the enormous tree, lit classically with white lights and elegant white and silver baubles. The din of conversation lulled to that of a quiet whisper, and Sherlock spoke loudly, “May I have your attention?”

“Let’s talk about Dr. John H. Watson,” Sherlock began, speaking to the room at large, while beckoning John over to his position by the tree. John warily walked over, acutely aware of the glow from the candle and the light from the tree bathing the two of them in a soft, sensual radiance.

“I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet,” Sherlock began, and under his breath to John, finished with, “Outside of this room, of course.”

John smiled mischievously and looked down, still unsure of where this was going.

“I never expected to be anybody’s best friend. Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.”

Sherlock went down on one knee, pulling a black velvet box from his pocket.

“I will never let you down, and should you have me, I will take the lifetime ahead of us to prove that,” Sherlock looked deeply into John’s eyes, and opened the box to reveal a modest, brushed silver band.

John understood now, the _just go with it_ comment. So he did. He imagined this was all real, that this was really happening; not an escape ploy. He let the true smile brighten his face, and pretending Sherlock truly loved and wanted him, let out a choked, “Yes, Sherlock, oh, God, yes!”

Sherlock placed the ring on John’s finger, came up to embrace John with a deep hug, and then swooped up to give John a sensual but brief kiss amid the applause in the room.

John melted, memorizing the moment; this feel of Sherlock’s taste, his lips, and his strong, long arms wrapped around John’s body. He felt warmth and joyful elation, and then Sherlock retreated, slipped an arm around his waist and announced, “Thank you all! I believe my fiancé and I need to celebrate, so you’ll excuse us.”

They made their way to the door, accepting hugs and excited kisses from Sherlock’s mother. It took less than ten minutes to make their escape.

-o-

In the car that Mycroft had arranged for them, John spoke first, hesitant to break the spell, “That was quite the plot. You must have wanted out of there more that I did.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked up, clearly not paying attention.

John looked at the ring on his hand and wished it were real. Well, that the sentiment behind it were real. But still, he began to twist it off his finger and asked, “How’d you think to have a ring? Do you want it back, now?”

“Want it back? John, it’s yours. You said yes.” Sherlock announced, in the tone of voice that suggested he was miles ahead of John, and leading him slowly.

“You told me to go with it, so I did,” John retorted, confused. “I don’t want to take your jewelry from you.”

“You could have said ‘no’ just as easily as you could have said ‘yes.’ Both would have gotten us out of there quite expediently.” Then Sherlock smirked, “You could have stiffened during our hug, our kiss, but you melted into my arms. Didn’t mind it then, even enjoyed it. I’ve noticed, John. You’ve wanted it for some time.”

Sherlock continued, “John, the ring is yours. My words were true. If you need proof, look at the engraving.”

“The engraving?” John asked, the hope springing forth in his voice. He removed the ring completely, squinted to read the block print inside, and joy radiated from his whole body.

_Could be dangerous -SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ariane Devere (http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/65379.html) for her dialogue which helped me paraphrase the best man speech into a proposal.


	5. The Story I’ll Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: Travel  
> Flows well from previous prompt, but not necessary to have read it.

John tossed his luggage in the boot with unnecessary force and slammed the lid. He poured himself into the passenger seat, radiating irritation and rubbed his temples, taking deep breaths to exorcise the rage bubbling to the surface.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his new fiancé; the tension obviously a culmination of attending the Watson family Christmas, doing so at his sister’s house, with an advertised open bar, and the certain traffic they were sure to hit as they left the city. He knew John needed to calm himself down, but Sherlock had selected a CD to play in the car; some of his own violin compilations that had proven to soothe John in the past; during his nightmares; the ghastly break ups with prior girlfriends; and the inexplicable rows with inanimate objects.

As Sherlock drove; the inevitable traffic jam loomed ahead. Sherlock decelerated slowly, far ahead of the taillights. He carefully gauged the speed of the “go traffic” in between the stops, and adjusted himself accordingly.

Finally, after a half hour of Sherlock leaving ever widening gaps and letting a dozen or so cars cut in front of them, all the calm that John had gathered flew out the window, “What the hell, Sherlock? Are you trying to take as long as possible to get there? It’s not enough I have to put up with my family, my sister, her drinking, but we have to drive as slow as bloody possible to only worsen the anticipation?”

“As usual, John, you fail to observe. I am simply acting in accordance with traffic flow theory; which suggests that traffic can fit a pattern, and by allowing merging, allowing large gaps between oneself and the cars stopped ahead of you, you can help alleviate the traffic behind oneself, additionally avoiding the discomfort of stop-and-go traffic oneself.”

“Really?” John asked with genuine curiosity, the edge of frustration leaving his voice, prompting Sherlock to continue.

And continue Sherlock did, disseminating the knowledge he gathered on traffic patterns; how merging is preferred, how drivers’ senses of pride prevents them from conducting in the most logical solutions. He went on, and John got lost in his voice, settled by the deep cadence; and felt a deep calm come over him.

Sherlock’s technical description, of which John only heard a third, neatly ended as the traffic did; leaving the road to his sister’s house free and open.

John smiled, his tension relieved, and reclining back in his seat, “You know, this is the story I’ll tell.”

“What story?”

“When they ask why I’m marrying you. I know Harry thinks we’ve been a couple forever, and I’ll never convince her otherwise; but the others. This is why we work, Sherlock; and this is what I’ll tell them.”

“Tell them whatever you like; I’ll simply tell them I loved you; saw you loved me; and we skipped the drudgery of dating.”

“Sherlock Holmes, that might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It’s not _romantic_ ,” Sherlock spit out the word like it burned, “It is just the truth.”

John leaned back, closed his eyes, and smiled. “Exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read up on traffic jam theory here: http://trafficwaves.org/


	6. Bespoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompts: Work Christmas Parties
> 
> Explicit hints, but nothing too descriptive.

“I don’t know. I’m not going fit in with your work crowd. I’m pretty sure I’ll stick my foot in mouth, piss off some dignitary, and ending up being the cause of some tribal war in South America.”

Mycroft smiled his fake, indulgent smile, “Surely it won’t be that bad.”

“You can’t even say that without that fake awful smile. Try again.”

Mycroft sighed deeply, letting his weight sink into the luxurious leather sofa, and looked up with softened eyes, “John, I need you there. It’s enough that I deal with these people daily, but then, to force the holiday spirit among makes them all sickeningly duplicitous. I need you, just one person who is authentic and truthful. One person who is real and genuine, and,” here Mycroft smirked, “constantly craving my cock.”

“Oh you git, fine. But you have to buy me a suit; nothing I own could possibly be acceptable to that crowd of yours.”

“Of course. I can’t be seen with you in those hideous jumpers.” Mycroft teased.

“Shut up, you love the jumpers.”

-o-

John felt unbelievable posh in the bespoke suit Mycroft had crafted for him. The indigo suit, baby blue shirt and paisley tie felt made him feel both fucking gorgeous, and incredibly out of place. After several reassurances, John entered the limousine, and steeled himself for a horrific night of dubious politicians, highly acclaimed critical figures, and the luxury of wait staff he always felt awkward around.

Mycroft offered him finely aged scotch in the limo, and he drank two on the rocks; suddenly feeling much better about walking into this event.

They came in together, not a single person batting an eye; Mycroft’s preferences were fairly clear to his colleagues.

Within twenty minutes, John felt overwhelmed by the double talk and the political correctness and found himself an empty library. He’d stolen a bottle of aged scotch from the open bar, sipping slowly while enjoying one of his favorite reads. His head buzzed slightly as he delved into a beautifully crafted dystopian, and Mycroft’s entrance went nearly unnoticed, until the man spoke.

“Too much for you?”

“Did you really expect me to mingle with that crowd?” John answered honestly. “I’ve got a good book, some good scotch; you do your thing and come back for me at the end of the night.”

Mycroft walked over and stood too close, between John’s legs. “I didn’t buy you that suit to not drink in the look of your gorgeous body while wearing it.” He bent and grasped the ivory paisley tie. He leaned down close to John, and whispered, “I will fuck you in this suit, then you will go out there; fake it for those lousy dignitaries, showing off your tight arse, those lovely, fit arms, and let everyone know you are mine. Only then, we can leave, and I promise, my love, that I will reward you greatly for your cooperation.”

John’s blush filled his face, just before Mycroft pulled him in for a deep, sensual kiss.

-o-

John wandered the hall forty minutes later, greeting and faking a charming personality for people for whom he cared less, with a slight discomfort from Mycroft’s rough but glorious attentions. But John knew, should he play his role convincingly, he could get a chance to take Mycroft in a way he so rarely did, and feel the tight heat of that gorgeously pale, freckled arse.

And to everyone’s surprise, save Mycroft, John was the talk of the party.


	7. The Right Incentive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: Buying Gifts For People You Barely Know

“Tell me again why I’m doing this?” Greg whined, setting another hand painted mug stuffed with cutesy packages of cocoa and marshmallows in cello film and clasping it together at the top with a tiny elastic band. He passed the cello-wrapped mug to his left, where Molly cheerful topped off the presentation with curled ribbons billowing down the sides.

“Because it’s Christmas. And it makes people happy.” Molly answered succinctly.

Greg looked at the name she neatly wrote on the seventh tag, “Mr. Piermont?” Who the hell is that?”

“David’s art teacher, you goof.”

“Wait? So I’m not just making gifts for primary teachers of all five of my children, but their specials teachers as well?! I haven’t met any of _them_. For the love of God, this is insane.” Greg looked mystified at the twenty five mugs in front them, “All of these are just for the kids’ bloody teachers?!”

Molly nodded, with a small, guilty smile.

“Didn’t you say you had gifts for your office, and I should do something for my team? I thought this was supposed to cover all of those meaningless gifts?”

Molly softly smacked his bicep, “They are not meaningless; they show people we care.”

“Sherlock would say it’s meaningless,” Greg muttered, slumping back into his seat petulantly.

“Really? That’s the standard you are using for social etiquette?” Molly teased him and Greg acquiesced the point with a shrug. She continued, “And why would your ex-wife have the children paint mugs for your staff, or my colleagues? No, the compromise for the teacher gifts was she would oversee the children making the mugs, and we would wrap them.”

“So what are we doing for the work crowd, then?”

“I was thinking of baking cookies tomorrow night.” Molly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and Greg couldn’t help but appreciate the good-natured attitude that was so beautiful on her.

“Cookies, huh?” Greg leaned over to press soft kisses down Molly’s neck and she blushed with a gentle, quiet moan that only served to spurn Greg on. He nibbled the delicate skin, and suggested, “Any chance you’d bake those cookies in nothing but that sexy blue apron?”

Molly giggled, and pushed Greg away, “First, that would be highly unsanitary for gifts we plan to give to our coworkers, and second, _we’ll_ be baking cookies, not just me.”

Greg groaned in disappointment, but Molly smirked and added, “But if we can get these wrapped by half eight, maybe I can be your personal chef tonight.”

“Oh _hell, yes_. There’s an incentive I can get behind!” Greg started working with dedicated efficiency, then paused to laugh, “In more ways than one.”


	8. A Cappella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: Non-Alcoholic Eggnog
> 
> A bit of extra cursing in this chapter, brief mention of parental homophobia.

“Seriously, Johnny? Non-alcoholic eggnog?” Jim questioned, eyebrow quirked in disgust.

“Listen, I’ve got you and Seb and Sherlock and bloody Mycroft at a party together; everyone else thinks you’re just ‘Jim from IT’ and the last thing I need is loose lips.”

“Oh, there is no sinking this ship, sweetheart,” Jim joked, and sashayed about to check on the catering at the hall. They’d had to rent a neutral space that both Mycroft’s and Jim’s security detail could clear, but it was worth it to John to actually be able to celebrate a Christmas with the man he loved, free of threat.

Ironic, that, how despite his not-legally-existing husband being a criminal genius and his flat mate’s older brother being the British Government, that this year, the first Christmas after his father’s death, he finally felt free of the fear he’d harbored ever since Harry came out and gotten a black eye and thrown out of the house for her troubles. Amazing what a little childhood trauma will instill one’s self.

John followed Jim’s distinctly outlined figure; Jim’s clothes, like always, making the man. John wrapped his arms around his husband, fingers drifting to where the tattoo on his chest claimed him as John’s. In lieu of rings; which were immediately obvious and had internationally understood implications, they’d signified their union with unique but complementary tattoos; one marking John as Jim’s and the other marking Jim as John’s.

John tapped anxiously on Jim’s chest atop the tattoo. Jim turned in his arms and nipped at John’s throat with a growl. “I’ve got this. Do you really think we have anything to fear from _Holmes’ boys_?” he exaggerated their surname with comedic effect, “I’m hurt, Johnny, eight years together? Don’t you trust me?”

John looked him in the eyes, giving him a piercing stare, “You know I do.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“They’ve never seen us together. They understand, conceptually, that we’re together, but I’m not sure they really know. And I’m concerned what it might mean for my future.”

“You think they won’t trust you? That you’ll be booted out the clever detective’s flat?” Jim’s care for John’s concerns came out between the mocking tones of his voice. “I’ve always promised I could keep you busy; that I could entertain you. I will, you know.”

“And I’ve always promised that I have to keep your work and I on different planes entirely. I don’t know what I’m capable of, and I’m not keen to end up like Seb.”

“Hey!” A voice barked out, “What the fuck’s wrong with Seb?” The glint in the blonde’s eyes betrayed the heat of his voice.

“You’re fucking insane, Sebby, you bloodthirsty cunt; that’s what.” Jim shot back, with similar malice. He turned to John with a sing song voice, “My Johnny’s a gentleman.”

“Bugger off, the both of you,” John feigned annoyance, and pushed Jim gently away.

“Language, boys. Don’t want to offend your guests,” the dulcet tones of the elder Holmes echoed through the hall.

John took a deep breath and turned. Jim ran his fingers down John’s spine and leaned in, “It’s going to fine, my sweet boy, I’ll handle everything,” and kissed right below his ear.

Sherlock stood behind his brother with a bored, exasperated look on his sharp features. John blushed slightly, but turned on his social charms and went to entertain his guests.

-o-

It was on his third cup of eggnog that John realized something was amiss. The drink was too smooth, his mind too relaxed. He glanced shiftily around the room, but there was no obvious suspect. No one was looking, so he took a whiff of his drink. _Oh yes, that was definitely rum_.

“Hey!” John shouted out, too happily content to care, “Who spiked the eggnog?”

“What was that, Johnny Boy?” Jim hollered back.

“I said, who spiked the eggnog?!” John yelled, more loudly this time, but cut off immediately as the room darkened, and a spot light shown on his gorgeous husband.

“Hit it boys!” Jim’s rang out, and six tuxedoed men appeared behind him as if emerging from the mist; one of them tossing him a microphone. The men began to harmonize, and Jim began to sing.

> _It was Christmas Eve_
> 
> _My friends were all in town_

John groaned. He couldn’t believe he’d walked right into this. And he really had; they’d listened to Straight No Chaser’s Christmas album several times this year; Jim loved _a cappella_. And this song; and Jim knew, _the bastard knew_ John would serve non-alcoholic eggnog. But he watched Jim, who loved to perform, who, despite his behind the scenes preferences in the criminal world, had a show tune style about him.

> _Tell me who, who spiked the eggnog?_
> 
> _I know the culprit’s here._
> 
> _Who, who brought the booze?_
> 
> _To the Christmas party this year._

John’s blush was a mix of embarrassment and arousal. He couldn’t help admire Jim’s finely-toned form as he watched the Irishman dance and sing, the way his body moved reminding John of their nights together. Then the embarrassment arose from imagining having Jim perform all to himself, being able to run his fingers down that musculature, that lithe form, and John blushed even further.

And then, John knew exactly how this would end. He groaned, but couldn’t help appreciate Jim’s genius. It was a brilliant performance, a glorious prank, and a fantastic way to soothe John’s jagged nerves, rolled into one beautiful package.

He continued to appreciate Jim’s show as the song wrapped up.

> _Hey, it’s pretty good stuff!_
> 
> _Who knows? It could’ve been me!_

And John, with the handful of others who knew the song, shouted on cue, “ _You_?!”

“ _Yeah_!” Jim sang, the _a cappella_ group behind him ending the song with a flourish.

The men disappeared as quickly as they came, and the house lights came up in the hall as the guests all applauded. Jim made his way through the crowd to see the huge grin on John’s face. Jim took John up in his arms, dipped him low, and snogged him thoroughly. The crowd cheered further, and Jim brought John up, whispering seductively in his ear, “I told you I’d handle this.”

John’s flush was evident for all to see; but he could not care less. He spent the rest of the night on his husband’s arm; the world, and the Holmes’ boys, be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Straight No Chaser; Who Spiked the Eggnog: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7byjAaLcRM


	9. Expensive Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompts: Buying Stuff For People You Already Buy Stuff For Anyways
> 
> Warning: Though there is nothing explicit (not even a kiss!), there is implied incest ahead. Think Folgers Coffee incest.

“So, what are you getting your brother for Christmas?” John paused to reflect on the wisdom of that question and asked instaed, “Do you even do gifts, or just deduce what you might have gotten each other and buy it for yourselves?”

“Cute, John, very witty,” Sherlock replied dryly. “But no. We have a civil drink together on Christmas Eve. He doesn’t belittle me and I don’t point out his many, many faults. That’s expensive enough.”

“Ah, a family thing. Can’t go in on that, then.”

“No, I suppose it might be considered rather unbecoming of me to invite you.”

John shrugged, pulling his jacket. “Any recommendations, then? I’ve got to get him something.”

“For God’s sake, why?” Sherlock exclaimed with exasperation. “For all his airs and graces, he cares just as little for pointless social niceties as I do.”

“And yet, I do it anyways. Almost as if I’m a real boy.” John mocked, and headed downstairs, “I’ll check with Mrs. Hudson.”

As the door closed behind him, Sherlock smirked. _Unbecoming, indeed._

-o-

As the time approached on Christmas Eve, Sherlock stepped out in his finest. His shoes were polished, his silk shirt new and straining at the buttons like always. The suit was freshly pressed and John had waited an hour for him to shower, wash, and strategically place his curls with product that cost more than a week of John’s salary.

Sherlock took a deep breath before donning his coat and scarf and descending down the stairs into Mycroft’s waiting black vehicle. He slid in next to his brother.

Mycroft silently passed a cigarette over, then flicked his lighter and offered Sherlock the flame. He pulled out a second and lit the cigarette in his own mouth. They sat in silence, puffing softly, the stillness unraveling and dissipating their tension like the thin tendrils of smoke dissipating out the windows.

-o-

Once inside Mycroft’s London flat, the façade shattered. They were no longer Mycroft Holmes, British Government and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, but Myc and Locky, those awkward Holmes’ boys. The jackets were still carefully hung; their mother had taught them well, but the shoes were perhaps not set as straight as they might otherwise, and their cuffs were rolled up before they hit the kitchen.

“What’d she get us, Myc?” Locky asked, pulling open the refrigerator. Anthea had been routinely tasked with getting the necessary supplies for Christmas Eve. Locky pulled out sandwiches and lasagna, salads and petit fours.

“Our favorites, like always. Why would I have her do anything else?” Myc answered, ever haughty given the seven year age difference.

“Oh, fuck off, you prat,” Locky said, but there was no heat behind his words, and no duplicity either.

Tonight was a night for the both of them; to relive the days before the pressures of Myc’s job had pulled him away, and before Locky descended into drugs; bored on a college campus, abandoned by his only friend.

Together they devoured sandwiches, the lasagna deemed too sophisticated for the evening, and discussed their year with the friendly warmth of teasing brothers. They ate the salads straight from the bowls, and the conversation flowed freely; Myc and Locky joking about John’s faces, Lestrade’s incompetent team, and the dreaded dinner at Mummy and Father’s tomorrow.

“Fuck, this is great,” Locky sighed, leaning up against the counter, looking up at the ceiling, belly full, “Why don’t we do this more often?”

Myc approached carefully, and slotted himself between Locky’s slightly spread legs. He leaned into Locky’s space, reaching past him and selecting a petit four from the plate off the counter between his long, delicate fingers. He pulled back only slightly, the whole of his body pressed against Locky’s, the warmth of their bodies energizing the air with static ecstasy, and pressed the tiny confectionary against Locky’s lips.

Locky parted them slightly, allowing his tongue to snake out and accept the gift.

Myc leaned close; so close that Locky could feel the heat of breath against his ear, “You know exactly why we can’t. Let’s make tonight count, shall we?”


	10. We're Good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt - Christmas Cards - John/Seb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a little smutty; brings the rating up to M. Bear that in mind.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Seb asked, incredulous.

“No, sadly, I am not,” John replied, legs draped over Seb’s lap on their couch. “I haven’t let my extended relatives know I’m alive, let alone that I’ve entered a relationship. A relationship with a man. A murderous man. A complete and fucking psychopath of a man. Who aimed a sniper rifle at my heart in a darkened swimming pool.” Seb offered a glare instead of a proper response.

John paused, then joked, “I don’t understand your reticence. Of course this is a good idea.” He smirked sarcastically; he didn’t care. He’d been with Seb for almost two years; it didn’t really matter anymore that Seb’s boss drove John’s flat mate to suicide, or that his flat mate drove Seb’s boss to suicide. What matter is that together, Seb provided the chaos and John provided the calm. Seb provided the violence, and John provided the cure.

A perfect complement.

Or, at least, that’s how they thought of themselves now. After Jim, the bloody cunt, had fucking offed himself like a goddamned tosser, Sherlock had jumped, the posh git. And Seb abandoned his orders, and John wandered around aimlessly until they found each other, oddly coincidentally, in a dried up watering hole, bemoaning the loss of focus in their lives.

They’d played pool that night, then arranged for darts the next. Weeks went by, and the pool and darts merged into dinner and entertainment, which eventually merged into slow fucks on the sofa between bouts of Bond and Jameson. They switched, both craving attention, both craving praise. Taking, receiving, giving, accepting; it didn’t fucking matter.

-o-

“So you want to announce to people. Family people. That you are fucking me. Of all people? Me?.” Seb questioned doubtfully.

“Well, the card won’t say ‘Happy Christmas, from John Watson, who is fucking Seb Moran left, right and sideways.’ It’ll say, ‘Happy Christmas, From John and Seb’.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“You’ve got a better idea?”

“Yeah, let’s forget the whole fucking thing.”

“Babe, I know your mum would love to know you’re alive. And by extension, your mum’s entire family; fuck your dad. Fuck me mum, fuck yer da.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Gotta pic?”

“Naw, let’s take one.”

“Right now?”

“In front of the tree, of course, now. When else do we have a tree?”

“Whenever we decide to raid the local park. C’mon, just pose.”

“Fine”

 _Click_.

“Damn, you’re gorgeous. Fuck, why can’t I look like this?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about; we’re both ugly fuckers. Your mummy too sweet to ya?”

“Eh, fuck off, Seb.”

“Meh.”

-o-

John kept the photo of him and Seb in front of the tree; and they sent it out as a proper Christmas Card. It was how John came out to most of his family, and how Seb gave a proper “fuck you” to his own. They got a standard card of gratitude from Mycroft, but John expected little less, even with John paying Mrs. Hudson the full rate for rent for six months before Mycroft swooped in. But the generous accommodations from his own family; his sister, an aunt, and four cousins; it was just enough to make bills for the year after Sherlock jumped.

Mycroft stopped in one day, as Seb was out with a job.

“Are you sure, John, this is what you want?”

“Yeah, Mycroft. He’s good for me. Keeps me sane. I don’t imagine I can do the same for him, though,” here John paused carefully, “So if you need to keep him down, then do so. Or let me enjoy him.”

-o-

“Fuck Mycroft. Bloody fucking Iceman, you’re mine, gorgeous, you got that? Mine.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.” John promised, eager for Seb’s cock, and willing to beg.

“You. I fucking want you.” Seb promised, and aligned them together to thrust slickly between them. They were undeniable perfect; just perfect for each other.

John cried out in pleasure as Seb eagerly pulsed between them. “Fuck Johnny, I’ll be good. Just dinnae fucking leave,” Seb cried out, acquiescing to John mid-orgasm.

John waited until they’d both spent and returned to proper breathing once again.

“Yeah, Seb, we’re good. Mine and forever.”


	11. A Wassailing We Will Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt - Matching Sweaters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this late, sorry! I'm trying to keep myself accountable!

Nights out with the boys steadfast in their stoic routine, except of course, when they did not. And when they did not, those wonderfully, strange and bizarre nights would storytelling lore for years to come.

Tonight seemed normal, right up until the fifth round. That’s when Davis light up with the glow of a bad idea. “Let’s go caroling!”

John looked at him, eyes narrowed, then his head bobbled a bit drunkenly, and he decided Davis was brilliant. John pointed at Davis, and announced, “That is a bloody awful idea, and I whole heartedly support it.”

Mike looked between the two of them and spoke up, with a modicum of common sense, “Bit underdressed for it, aren’t we?” They looked at their screen printed t-shirts and jeans, then Willy, with a slam of his glass on the table, proclaimed, “To the shops!”

And with a throaty chorus of agreement, they shuffled stupidly out of the pub. From the first moment the idea sparked in Davis’ head until they’d left less than five minutes; these were the nights from which stories were crafted.

-o-

They’d sobered up, but only mildly, when they wandered around the store, looking for anything festive with which to decorate themselves. Mike found tinsel, but John vetoed it; in favor of the animals. Willy suggested hanging ornaments off their belt loops, which led to a slew of raunchy innuendos (“Do you mean, in- _your_ -end-oh!” Willy slurred).

Suddenly, Davis shouted, much to loudly for indoors, “Jackpot!” and the others gathered around him.

“Yes.” John said, with absolution.

“I’m expected to buy one of these monstrosities?” Mike questioned.

“Mate, it’s only 3 quid; I’ll pony it up for you. We have to wear these!” Willy elbowed his way past Mike.

And the four of them marched out of the shop in the most hideous matching Christmas sweaters they’d ever seen; a mash of neon green and a dark blood red, ornaments made of pompoms and metallic threads.

-o-

Sherlock cursed; he’d need another test subject with a different blood type. He gathered his coat and scarf and flung open his front door, and found before him four drunken uni blokes. They looked a cross between startled and confused, and Sherlock took only second before delivering his scathing review.

“Idiots!” he spat, “Going caroling; even haphazardly giving it enough planning to buy those hideous jumpers, and you didn’t think to agree on a song before walking up to the door? Whose idea was it?” Sherlock glared at them all, and then decided, “You. It was you. The one still living at home with mummy and daddy.”

The bloke opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock cut him off with a sneer and a half nod at the others, “They all looked at you. Obvious.”

One snickered under his breath, and Sherlock pounced, “And you didn’t wash your hands after using the loo. Disgusting habit for medical student.”

“Piss off,” the bloke growled back, but Sherlock wasn’t paying attention anymore. The last student, a blond at the end, was looking at him with a curious smile.

“What are you smiling at, soldier boy?”

The blond smiled wider, and with a genuine glint in his eye that wasn’t the booze, “Amazing. That’s brilliant. How do you do that?”

“What?” Sherlock asked, the snarl replaced by skeptical confusion.

“How do you know all that?”

Sherlock kept staring, but couldn’t see any duplicity in the student’s demeanor. And then he remembered why he’d opened the door in the first place.

“Come in. I’ll tell you. Not your idiot friends, though. Don’t need them bumbling about, fucking up my experiments.”

The boy’s friends all spoke at the same time, varieties of “Fucking kidding me?” and “Freak,” and so they were all surprised to hear the boy’s “Yeah, alright.”

The quiet brunet spoke up, “John, don’t be stupid. He could be anybody. It’s not safe.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched and he turned to the blond, John, with raised eyebrows, “He’s right, you know. Could be dangerous.”

“You’d have to be quite stupid. My friends all know where you live. If I’m never seen again, they know exactly where to bring the cops.”

Sherlock nodded, pleased, and stepped back to admit John entrance, “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” and to the others, “The address is 221B Baker St, in case you’ve forgotten how you got here in the morning. Now scram.”

With a wave, and unnecessary reassurance to his friends, John turned back to Sherlock, beamed, “Lead the way, Sherlock Holmes.”


	12. The Iron is Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt - Holiday-Only Volunteers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue-Only  
> Very short; but it's been bouncing around my head since day 1.

“We’ll need to find Harris.”

“So, the homeless network, then?”

“What? Oh, no. Not at this time of year.”

“Seriously, Sherlock? That much of a Scrooge, are you?”

“Don’t be daft, John. Even you can figure this one out.”

“Figure out what?”

“Why I do what I do when I do it.”

“So you don’t use the homeless network around Christmas.”

“No.”

“Any other holidays?”

“Easter.”

“You’re not religious. But those are religious holidays. So something to do with other people being religious, then.”

“…”

“When other people are religious… they visit family, they go to church, they… oh! They volunteer and donate. But what’s that got to do… Are there more homeless events this time of year?”

“Homeless Events? It’s not a soiree, John.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. But go on.”

“Well, I suppose if there are more, um... programmes? Do you like the word programmes better?”

“Better, but not much.”

“More programmes mean more food, more money, more shelter; and less time for you? So what, you don’t get their help because they’re not fast enough this time of year?”

“Do you really think that poorly of me, John? I know I am a selfish, egotistical man, but really, John? Even I have standards.”

“Are you sure? Because I’m not sure I’ve ever seen proof of that.”

“John, I was homeless once.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, no, don’t be like that, it was mostly a choice, or a choice between a flat and drugs, and the drugs were infinitely more interesting than the flat, but regardless John, do not pity me.”

“It’s not pity. It’s more… understanding.”

“Understanding what?”

“Why you have a homeless network. And how. And with that in mind, I amend my previous statement. I understand. It’s not that they don’t have enough time for you, it’s that you want them to have enough time to acquire anything and everything they can while the giving is good.”

“Excellent. So do let me know when you’ve found Harris, then.”

“Wait, what?”

“We need to find Harris, I’ve got to get to Bart’s to analyze the samples, hence I cannot. You are clearly my next logical choice. And now that you understand why I can’t use the homeless network, there will be no cause, rational or morally, for you to argue.”

“But-“

“Yes, John?”

“Just keep your bloody phone on you. And answer when I text!”


	13. Upsides of Emotional Manipulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: A Christmas Carol

Jim sighed, “Why am I watching this drivel?”

“Drivel?” John answered, feigning chest pain, “This is a classic!”

“It’s schlock.”

“It isn’t _Yiddish_ bad, for certain.” John admonished.

“I’m sick of Christmas movies in which the protagonist must have some heartwarming, three-sizes-too-big revelation about the **Christmas _fucking_ spirit**!” Jim nearly shouted. “Ebenezer Scrooge was running a fucking business. A small business; he isn’t a mega corporation screwing over thousands of employees. It’s just him, and a guy who can’t keep in his pants despite being poor as fuck. Family planning, arsehole, just ask the bloody Catholics!”

“Taking this a bit personally, are we, Jim?”

“No. Well, _yes_. I mean, I’m all in favor of emotional manipulation, but this is international brainwashing. Honestly, I’m a bit jealous of the scope,” Jim affected a bit of a hallow voice for emphasis, but then snapped into a whine, “But really, for _Christmas_? This obnoxious holiday with its obnoxious traditions and emphasis on spirit and happiness and fucking happily ever after; really, Johnny, you don’t understand why I hate this shit?” Jim ended in a pout, like a sullen six year old.

“Yes. You’re a Grinch.”

“Oh, hell, there’s another one.” Jim widened his eyes in exaggeration. “What should be celebrated as a saving a corrupt capitalist institution and single handedly taking down the Whoville bourgeoisie in one night,” and the look on Jim’s face is completed academic, “Is instead the complete destruction of his entire person hood, again with the brainwashing, into something simplistic, pedestrian, so fucking ordinary, and it’s _applauded_.”

By the end of his dialogue, Jim was actually angry; almost in a rage.

John slowly reached out his hand to press the button on the remote and the din of the telly disappeared, “Oh hell,” he said with a soft, calming voice, “It is personal.”

Jim’s whole demeanor has darkened and John felt the danger lurking beneath the surface. It was enticing; erotic. John wanted this ire taken out on backside, a thorough whipping and rough fuck; he loved the marks of Jim’s fury on his skin. John leaned in, softly running his fingers up Jim’s arm, past the crook of his neck, and threaded his fingers through the jet black hair. He leaned in and whispered in Jim’s ear.

“Come to bed, and teach me a lesson?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Jim's rant inspired by this post: http://grinch-night-fans.tumblr.com/post/100950176427/ratsputin-deanwinchestersshortshorts


	14. A Little Gift Giving Never Hurt Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt – Commercials/Adverts

John arrived home to tension that he’d come to associate with Mycroft’s visits. He sighed as he dropped off the groceries in the fridge, the tea in the cupboard, and then went to deposit his coat on the hook. As he passed by, he gave Mycroft a slight nod, and a “Mycroft.”

“Oh, I see. That’s why you’ve been terrorizing me with this frankly ridiculous case for the last twenty minutes,” Sherlock crowed victorious.

“John, I believe my brother needs to ask you for your advice.” Sherlock jeered, his voice somehow implying disdain for both Mycroft and John.

“Oh shut up, you brat.” John tossed out, vaguely annoyed but completely unsurprised by Sherlock’s lack of charm. He looked at Mycroft, “Is this another Greg thing?”

“Indeed. Diplomatic relations are simple compared the minefield of romantic entanglements,” Mycroft answered wistfully.

Sherlock huffed with disgust, and trounced off to his bedroom. With a loud slam, John and Mycroft were alone.

“So what seems to be the problem?” John asked, as Mycroft respectfully moved from John’s chair into Sherlock’s.

“ _Christmas_.”

The vitriol poured into the single word caused John to laugh aloud. “Jesus, Mycroft, not a fan?”

“Jesus is acceptable; I’m not fond of the crass commercialization of the celebration of his birthday. Regardless, I understand it is expected of me to find gifts for Gregory, and I must admit, I am at a loss. If he were Prime Minister, I would already have his gift selected, wrapped, and ready to send.”

“What does he like?”

“Single malt bourbon and a Faberge egg for his wife.”

John rubbed his eyes with his right hand, “Greg, you idiot, not the Prime Minister.”

Mycroft opened his mouth, closed it, then finally spoke, “I am clearly flustered, I apologize for the misunderstanding.” He paused and collected himself, “Gregory enjoys pub accoutrements, such as beer, pool, darts and other similar foods and games in that category. He likes dogs; but doesn’t own one. He feigns interests for his children. He watches sitcoms when I am away and documentaries when I am home.”

“You ever watch telly together?”

“Yes, why?”

“Just observe him, then, it’s what you Holmes do best. Watch him during the adverts; see what lights up his eyes, what comments he makes. And figure it out from there.” John didn’t know Greg much beyond their nights out at the pub, and had even less knowledge about what interests he and Mycroft shared in their alone time; he figured this was solid advice.

“Ah, I typically make calls or send emails during that time; it allows me to be available without disrupting our time together. But yes, for a few hours, I suppose I can keep a close watch and see what catches his attention.”

Mycroft stood up, “Thank you, John, you’ve been most helpful.”

“Sure, sure. Good luck.”

-o-

Sherlock bounded out as soon as the door downstairs opened and closed. “You should have seen the case he tried to ply me with as we waited for you. Disgraceful. I should have known it wasn’t a serious option.”

“Oh, leave him alone. He just needed to know what to get for Greg for Christmas.”

Sherlock groaned, “How frightfully dull. I suppose you didn’t just recommend Greg do it himself?”

“Sherlock, most other people don’t solve their Christmas gift giving like that.”

“Most people are idiots. What am I getting you for Christmas this year, anyways?”

“A new refrigerator.”

“Am I? That seems quite generous of me.”

“Well, after that experiment tipped over last month and ate through three shelves, you figured I deserved it.”

Sherlock laughed softly, “I suppose you do. When will it be here?”

“Thursday.”

“So can I experiment on this one now then?”

“And there’s my Christmas gift to you.”


	15. Thanks to John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompts - Giant Cars with Big Red Bows
> 
> Follows directly from the last prompt.

John’s phone rang early on Boxing Day; while he was still in his flannel pajama bottoms and making the day’s first cup of tea and beans on toast. He planned to ignore it, until he saw Lestrade’s name pop up on the display. Thinking they might have a case, he answered, “Watson.”

“ _Doctor_ John Watson, I’m told I have you to thank.” Lestrade’s voice held an uncertain humour.

John couldn’t determine his sincerity, so he defaulted, “Uh, I’m sorry?”

“I woke up yesterday, ready to spend the day with my girls before meeting Mycroft for Christmas dinner. I wake up, and hanging from my door is a bespoke suit, bloody gorgeous, and all the tag says is ‘Tie Forthcoming -Mycroft’”

“Yes, I am beginning to see how this is my fault,” John’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

 

-o-

_Greg laughed at the Harrod’s advert, “Yeah, my girls always get me a new tie. Too bad they can’t get the suit to go with it! Mind you, I’d still look like I’m living rough next to you.” He leaned into Mycroft and relaxed into his arms, “It’s not fair you look as good as you do.”_

_-o-_

 

“Oh, I’m not finished.”

John laughed.

“So I head down the hall to my kitchen for some coffee, and there is this monstrous coffee machine that has developed some sort of symbiotic relationship with my plumbing. Note just says ‘Press here –Mycroft’ with an arrow, and it makes the best damned cup of coffee I’ve had in my life. I’m fucking ruined for that swill they brew down at the Met now.”

 

-o-

_“Oh, thanks, Mycroft, this coffee is so much better than the swill they brew at the Met.” Greg pressed a quick, warm kiss to Mycroft’s lips before returning to the crime scene._

-o-

 

“In fairness, anything is quality compared that that shit.”

“Not the point. So, I decide to wear my new suit to head over to the ex’s, you know, show off a little of what she’s missing now, and I walk outside, and there is – and I’m not joking here, this is completely true – a fucking Audi with a huge bloody bow on it, and the keys are in my coat pocket – oh new coat by the way, note says ‘Can’t wear the old one with the new suit.’ Take a guess who that’s from.”

 

-o-

_Greg flung his hand out towards the telly, “I hate these adverts! No one actually does that! God, what I wouldn’t give for a brand new car in my drive.” Mycroft pressed a kiss to his head as he passed behind the sofa, on his way to fetch them tea._

-o-

 

“Oh, I see, you’ve called to brag, you arse. Well, I bought myself a refrigerator to replace the disease riddled one I had before. Feeling jealous, now, are we?” John mocked.

“Oh, no, I’m still not done.”

John deadpanned, “You’re kidding me.”

Greg just laughed, “Right? I’m starting to feel like a fucking heel by this point. Nothing I got him compares.”

“So I take the bloody bow and shove it inside, take the car to see the girls, since my old car is just gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

“The girls give me the matching tie to my suit, along with some cutesy homemade shit; nice stuff, like flower pots and fridge magnets. Little reminders of them, yeah? We all have a great time.

“Then I show up to the restaurant. It’s empty, but the whole staff is waiting for me. They sit me down, and Mycroft comes over, dressed to the fucking nines, right?”

“Isn’t he always?”

Greg’s throaty chuckle betrayed his desire, “You have no idea.” He paused, clearly relishing the memory, before continuing, “He comes over, and I tell him he was too generous this year, that I can’t possibly take all this. And he just says he has been watching me, that he knows what I want. And then-“

 

-o-

_Greg looked at the telly wistfully, on which played an advert for wedding bands. For the third time that night, Greg rubbed his empty left ring finger with his left thumb, and glanced instinctively towards Mycroft. Almost imperceptible. Almost._

-o-

 

“And then, he gets down one fucking knee, and says, ‘I want this, too’, and pulls a ring out of his goddamned pocket.”

There was a long, shocked silence. Then, “So I’m talking to the next Holmes, then am I?” John smirked.

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the point.”

“It seems like it might be.”

“No, when I asked what the hell he’d been thinking, why the hell he did all that, you know what he said?”

“I’m guessing.’

“‘You have John Watson to thank.’”

“Well. Glad to help, you’re welcome.”

“NO! I mean-“

“Do you like the gifts?”

“Yes, but-“

“Do you want to marry Mycroft?”

“Well, yes-“

“Then Happy Christmas,” and before Greg could protest further, John hung up the phone, pleased. Mycroft marrying Greg would help keep Mycroft out of Sherlock’s hair, and get him more exposure to Greg’s cases.

Time to go give Sherlock his next present.


	16. More Depressing than Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti Christmas Prompt: Dead Trees Indoors

“Molly is still pissed at you, you know.” Greg murmured against Sherlock’s neck, and he slung an arm around the younger man as he prepared to launch himself out of bed.

“I know, Greg, let me go!” Sherlock struggled halfheartedly against him.

“After that mess you left in her lab last week, you tell me how you plan to get back in her good graces before I let this sexy arse go.” Greg teased, and grabbed Sherlock’s arse with his free hand.

“Fuck!” Sherlock moaned as Greg slipped two fingers into him, still loose from their morning romp.

“Be a good boy, and make it up to her.” Greg emphasized with soft pressure.

“Okay, Greg, I promise, fuck, just-“ Sherlock collapsed against him, “Oh, don’t stop. Oh please, Greg, OH!”

Greg smiled against Sherlock’s shoulder, and took Sherlock for the second time that morning.

-o-

Sherlock burst into Molly’s morgue with a flourish and a dead, two meter fir. The branches were bare and one twig snapped off as it caught the door frame.

“Sherlock.” Molly growled tersely. “What is this?”

Sherlock thrust it towards her, “For you.”

Her voice tilted, “For me. A dead tree?”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock waved around his arm, “A Christmas tree.”

“It’s dead.”

“So are all your patients.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Molly quirked an eyebrow, but thinned her lips.

Flustered, he declared, “This is a morgue!” and dropped the tree in the corner. “It’s a gift. Take it or leave it.” And with a dramatic flap of his Belstaff, he fluttered out the door.

-o-

“A dead Christmas tree? Pretty clever for a morgue,” Greg commented to Molly as he walked in. In the corner stood a needleless tree, adorned with tinsel, baubles and cutesy cat ornaments.

“Yes, well. A gift.” Molly shook her head, as though to clear it, “From Sherlock.”

“Oh God, he was supposed to do something nice. Not morbid. I’ll take it off your hands for you. Sorry, Dr. Hooper.

“No, no! It’s fine, actually. It’s… really grown on me.”

Greg looked at her, brimming with skepticism.

“No really! I rather like it. It seems fitting. And a regular tree would just sit here dying, which would be depressing.” And Molly cut Greg off as he opened his mouth, “Yes, more depressing than death. And at least this way, it can stay indefinitely. Do let Sherlock know he can come back into the lab if he needs it.”

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll be sure to keep motivated to care for you.”

Molly smiled slyly, “I don’t care what you do; just keep it out of my lab.”


	17. Fast As You Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: Holiday Cooking

Harry led him to a small café with a hand painted sign that read ‘ _bakkescence_ ’ in an untidy, navy blue scrawl. The winter chill did nothing for his limp, and his cheap gloves couldn’t hold a grip on his cane, so his bare hand was red with windburn by the time they arrived.

“Owner’s a right bastard,” Harry warned, but explained, “but his baking is to die for.”

The line bore the latter out; at least a dozen customers were milling about mid-morning on a weekday, and soon John heard evidence of the former.

“It’s a ginger _SNAP_ , you cretin, of course it’s crunchy!” The proprietor snarled, and while John couldn’t hear the customer’s next words, he could definitely hear the response. “You’ve eaten half of it! I can hardly be blamed for your idiocy, and I’m certainly not in the habit of rewarding said stupidity. Get out of my shop!”

“Christ, you weren’t kidding,” John murmured under his breath.

He scanned the menu while they waited their turn. The heat of the small room felt like a balm on his exposed skin, but caused him to soon overheat. He shuffled off his coat and draped it over his arm holding the cane. He felt comforted in the atmos, and realized that unlike every shop he’d been in since he’d been back played warbling Christmas music, and served nothing but peppermint and eggnog. All of which were conspicuously absent in this warm shop with the aggressive owner.

They made their way to the front. The man, with tussled black curls and a nametag that read ‘Sherlock’ with the same scrawl the café sign was written in. He stared at then intensely, and John began to speak, when he was rudely shushed.

“Don’t talk. I’ll deduce it.”

John tilted his head, but stayed silent as ordered.

“Your sister is buying, so nothing to frivolous, but you’re a army doctor just home from war, so even a simple biscuit would be a treat for you. But you’re not much for chocolate are you? Then perhaps, ah! Yes!” The owner, Sherlock, went into the display case a picked out a pastry and placed it delicately in a small box, labeled it and placed it in a white paper bag. Then he turned on Harry, watched for a few seconds, then slipped back into the case for another dessert.

John remained silent as he watched the transaction, as Harry paid for their pastries and a cup of tea for them both.

They found a few arm chairs near the fireplace, which crackled with false sound and radiated manufactured heat. Harry pulled out a box and read “ _White Peach Raspberry Jam Tart_ ,” and laughed, “That’s for you!” as she handed the box to John. She reached back into to the bag and pulled out her box, and read _“Bitter Chocolate and Rendelsham Forest Chestnut Truffle Cake.”_

They opened their boxes and dug in, both groaning in delectable pleasure.

After a few bites, John sniffed, “Is that rum?”

“What? No,” Harry immediately denied, and then leaned down to sniff her dessert. “It is. It **IS**. How dare he?!” She stood suddenly with unfocused rage in her eyes, and John hung his head. Now he was in for a show.

“Hey, you!” She hollered over the counter. “Why the hell is my dessert loaded with rum?”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate as he yelled back, loud enough for John to hear in the corner, “Because you’re an alcoholic.”

Harry shrieked at that. “ _Recovering_! Not current!”

“No, definitely current. Hiding it from your brother, though. Thought I’d help the ruse.”

Harry’s eyes were wide as she snapped her head back towards John, and in that instant, he could see the truth on her face. He sighed, his shoulders drooping in resignation. He’d been disappointed again, but it was starting to numb him, to hear she was drinking again.

She turned back to Sherlock, and snarled, “Piss off, you bastard.” And with a scorned look at John, she stormed out of the shop, leaving him behind.

John shrugged to the few people in the shop watching the confrontations, and ate the last bite of his jam tart. He sipped at his tea, and palmed the phone Harry’d left him. He figured he’d have to call a cab. He took another sip, and when he put the cup back down, he jumped at the sight of Sherlock sitting across from him.

“I close in twenty minutes. I’ll call you a cab.”

“Yeah, it looks like I’ll need it. How’d you know?”

“That she was an alcoholic? The marks on the phone she gave you, where she plugs it in, scratches where she tries to plug it in after a long night of drinking.”

“Amazing.”

“What?”

“And that I was an army doctor?”

“Tan lines, haircut, I could go on, but I won’t. Not now anyways. I’ll catch the cab home with you. We’ll swing by my place to check out my flat; to see if you approve.”

“If I approve of what?”

“You need a ride. You need a flat mate. It’s clear your sister isn’t an option, and I happen to be in need of someone who isn’t offended that I know what they do at a glance.”

“I’m guessing you don’t find that a lot.” John smirked, realizing he’d been arguing with customers since they’d first walked in.

Sherlock smiled, and it lit up his face. John smiled back. “You knew she’d do that, didn’t you?”

Sherlock shrugged with a guilty grin, “It’s not the first time she’s yelled at me and stormed out. You seemed like a promising prospect, but I needed to get you alone.”

John raised a single eyebrow, and his lips quirked into a seductive smile. A promising prospect, indeed.


	18. Coming To Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: Children with Mountains of Presents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first attempt at kid!lock, and it was HARD. I'm not happy with the ending, but I just want it to go away.

“You will behave, my young men. Be quiet and observe until you’ve observed their habits, their cultural decisions, and please, _please_ remain silent until you are certain you understand.”

“Yes, Father” Mycroft piped up, ever the diligent one, twelve going on forty two.

A pregnant pause; then “Sherlock?”

“ _Fine_.” The petulant five year old sulked.

Father led them to where Mummy was greeting a lady older than her, their host during Mummy’s conference, and for their stay afterwards, so they didn’t have to travel on Christmas Day.

“Yes, Kathy, these are my boys, Mycroft and Sherlock. They are a bit too clever for their own good sometimes, so I apologize if they are overly blunt. Entirely my fault, I’m afraid. I am terribly proud of them, and just find it difficult to discipline them for social niceties that have no basis in logic. Boys, this is Mrs. Overby”

Sherlock grinned silently at the floor, while Mycroft held out his hand to offer a firm handshake. “Mrs. Overby, delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“What a polite young man you are!” Mrs. Overby fawned over him with disgustingly sweet sincerity, and turned to Sherlock, “And you, young man, I’ve got a grandson your age. You’ll get to meet him Christmas Day. I’m sure you’ll have such fun together!”

Sherlock scowled, and Father nudged him meaningfully and hummed a gentle warning. He kept the pout on his face, but stopped the noise.

They followed Mrs. Overby to her car, Sherlock and Mycroft silently categorizing the overwhelming differences between London and Chicago. Mycroft aimed for the level of knowledge that would impress his host, make her throat squeal in approval, while Sherlock wanted the gasp of shock.

-o-

Christmas morning, Sherlock bounded down the stairs as soon as he heard someone else’s footsteps creak in the house. He rarely slept, but obeyed Mummy when she said he couldn’t leave his room until he heard movement. He followed the noises to the downstairs sitting room, and his eyes grew wide at the enormous piles of gifts that both overwhelmed the Christmas tree and his person. His eyes flickered over the pile; there must have been over 300 gifts there for just eight people.

He looked at the paper, checked the handwriting of a few, and deduced that he and Mycroft were getting their typical number of gifts, five perfectly dedicated gifts each, and Mrs. Overby’s grandchild, Tommy, was getting at least 150 gifts of his own, depending on how many gifts his parents received.

“Oh, wow!” Tommy shrieked, as he arrived Christmas morning, at a drastically early 8 am. He rushed into the room on slippered feet, dressed in glaringly awful cartoon mouse pajamas, “Santa came!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was more than evident, based on the handwriting and the angle at which the tape was placed on all the boy’s gifts, that the gifts had come from the child’s parents. “Idiot,” he sneered, “Your parent brought you those presents. There is no fat man in a ugly red suit bringing stupid children useless trinkets.”

The silence was deafening until Tommy burst into loud, outrageous sobs. Tommy’s mother rushed to him, while shouting at Sherlock, “You little brat! How dare you!” Turning back to Tommy she said, “Don’t listen to him, Tommy. He’s a naughty little boy, that’s why Santa doesn’t bring him any presents.”

Sherlock turned his head when his mother spoke, “There’s no reason to lie to the boys. I’ll talk to Sherlock about his name-calling, but let’s not suggest he’s naughty for simply telling the truth.”

“Tommy, don’t listen to them. Do hear how they talk funny? They live far away, and Santa doesn’t visit them. They are all naughty, naughty people.”

Mummy turned to Mrs. Overby, commenting with her falsely polite voice, “I’m terribly sorry. Is this a culture thing, to cling so tightly to this ‘Santa’ ruse?”

Sherlock beamed. Mummy always took his side.


	19. Red Rider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: Christmas-Themed Programmes – Jolto in Afghanistan

The heat in the tent might have been stifling in his first week back in Afghanistan, but six months into his deployment, the milder heat of winter was relatively refreshing. There were four of them in the tent, sharing a six pack of warm American beer, which was little better than watered down piss. John knew better than to complain, the two Americans that shared with them were termed by their comrades as “Good ‘Ole Boys,” which John came to understand meant they were inordinately proud of their American heritage, or what little heritage they had as Americans.

So John and James accepted the warm beverage, grateful for the spirit in which it was given, instead of for the quality of the beer itself. Their American friends decided it was time for some holiday spirit, and given that it was Christmas Eve, they insisted on watching some old Christmas comedy.

“So, this counts as a classic in the States?” James asked, skeptical.

“Oh yeah. Plays for 24 hours in a row on Christmas Eve.” The blond American, Danny, answered.

“People watch this for 24 hours?”

“No, no one does the whole time. The point is that it’s always on, so whenever you want to pop in and watch a few minutes, it’s there.”

“Huh.” James clearly didn’t see the appeal, but John could see how a fun little comedy about wanting a specific toy for Christmas could resonate with people young and old alike. He leaned into James subconsciously, but caught himself. Only a few knew how close John and James were, and they were careful not to advertise it. But at Christmas, with a beer and some biscuits a church group had sent, John wanted little more than to cuddle in James, feeling treasured in his arms.

The last time, their leave had been stilted. First John left, then James, so it had been months since they’d been able to be openly affectionate. John worried their relationship wouldn’t last outside Afghanistan, when he thought on it alone in his bunk late at night. Secret liaisons might be sufficient to carry them through a warzone, but at home?

John pushed the thoughts from his mind, and continued watching the film, happy just to spend time with James and their friends, sharing much needed laughter and Christmas joy. After the film was over, the Americans bid their farewell, leaving John and James alone.

John reminisced, “When I was a kid, I always wanted an Atari, you know, one of those old first generation video game systems? I asked every year for five years, and then my sister got one for Christmas the following year. I was so mad, I didn’t talk to my parents for a week and a half. “

James smiled, but instead of sharing his own Christmas memories, he remained silent as he pulled John into his embrace, allowing John to straddle his legs, and James wrapped his arms around John pulling him chest to chest.

They shared a soft, unhurried kiss, flavored by the hint of lager, and James nuzzled into John’s neck. With a half-serious huff of laughter, James insisted, “Just promise me, Watson, that you won’t shoot your eye out.”


	20. Traitors and Bigots and Peppermint, Oh My

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt - Peppermint
> 
> This got a little out of hand.
> 
> WARNINGS: Mild Dub-Con, Graphic Violence

Jim sauntered into the meat cooler, where his latest victim waited, chilled and restrained. The young blonde thrashed around, his wrists bound in rough ropes held high above his head with a meat hook. He tossed out insults with spit and vinegar as his bleach white hair flopped stupidly against his forehead. Jim ignored the boy; he was barely older than twenty two, and strode to a comfortable cinchy armchair in the middle of the cooler, its luxury only heightened how out of place it looked in the metal freezer.

“Seb,” Jim drawled, as he unbuttoned his jacket to sit down. “I need a treat.”

“Yes, Boss.” Seb obeyed, and pulled out a thick peppermint stick, slightly wider than the handle of a cricket bat, handing it to Jim.

Jim smiled in childlike wonder, and snatched the candy out of his hand. “Thank you,” he giggled, then turned with a distinctly lizard like coldness towards his captive, “and get my tools. The festive ones, today.”

Seb nodded and disappear out of the freezer. The young man sneered as Jim began to enjoy his peppermint stick, “You look like a cocksucker.”

Jim emphatically sucked on the candy, slowly and seductively while maintaining eye contact until the boy turned away, uncomfortable. “Seb’s the cocksucker,” and then, in a sing song, “And I know you’re one too.”

Jim continued hollowly, “Is that why you did it Drake? Why you turned coat and started spying for the Iceman? Because your Daddy is a fucking bigot?”

Jim stood up and circled the blond, eying him from all angles.”See Drake, if you’d just come to me in the first place, I could have handled Daddy. For obvious reasons, I don’t tolerate idiots, and I assure you I’ll have your father taken care of. But you, boy, you fucked up.

“And now, I have the pleasure of taking you apart, to set your nerves on fire, to dangle you like a fish on a hook. Because, unfortunately for you, in my hierarchy, traitors are worse than bigots.”

“You gonna rape me, faggot?!” Drake spat.

Jim smiled obscenely wide, “My, my, someone has a one track mind.” He affected a painfully false sincerity, and after a long suggestive suck on the thick peppermint stick, “I’ve got much more in store for you. It’s Christmas! And everyone, even little old me, needs a bit of cheer this time of year.”

Seb returned with a metal cart, the tools of Jim’s festive plans hidden under a sheet of cutesy silver wrapping paper decorated with blue and green ornaments. “Seb, what a lovely touch.” He beckoned Seb closer, and stage-whispered, “Our guest is a closet case. It’s the least we can do to give him a show before our fun begins.”

Jim returned to his verdigris crushed velvet lounge chair, which contrasted nicely against the grey bespoke suit he wore. He spread his legs wide invitation, and Seb dropped to his knees eagerly. He opened Jim’s zip, and mouthed at the erection through his boxers, letting his hot breathe tease Jim, who sighed contentedly and slouched further.

Drake shifted uncomfortably in his restraints, and Jim could notice the obvious tent in the boy’s trousers. Jim groaned louder, over acting his satisfaction, and Seb reacted positively, moaning as he sucked the head of Jim’s cock into the wet warmth of his mouth. Jim bucked up slightly and Seb gagged around the cock in his throat, while forcing himself further down. Seb always enjoyed pushing himself, and on more than one occasion was so vigorous in his attentions he passed out from lack of oxygen.

“Good boy, Sebby, your mouth is _pure_ sin.” Jim spoke, the smallest hitch in his breath belying his gratification. He didn’t take his eyes from Drake, staring the boy down and daring him to look away. He chuckled as he noticed Drake rhythmically circling his hips to provide himself friction. “That’s right, boy, embrace it. You don’t have enough time left to keep lying to yourself.”

Seb, annoyed that Jim was still capable of taunting their traitor, renewed his efforts, snaking a hand up under Jim’s vest to play with the sensitive nubs hidden beneath layers of fine cloth. Seb smiled around Jim’s cock as the man went from criminal mastermind to speechless under the onslaught of pleasure.

In a few quiet minutes, the wet heat of Seb’s mouth, the gentle texture of his tongue, and the taunting vibrations of his humming sent Jim over the edge, and, in a showboating move, he pulled out just in time to stripe Seb’s face with thick lines of come. After a moment of recovery, Jim looked at Drake.

“It’s up to you, Drake, my boy. I’m a reasonable man.” How Jim could sound like a middle management banker was beyond Seb, but Drake seemed to respond to it. “I’m going to kill you, yes, but what sort of man would I be if I didn’t offer to grant you one last wish? Would you like to know, dear boy, how it feels to be thoroughly fucked? You’ve craved men for so long, it seems a shame for you to die without knowing one’s touch.”

“Fuck off!” Drake snarled immediately.

“Are you sure? The endorphin high might make the aftermath that much better.” Jim flattened his lips into a straight line, eyebrows raised in persuasive suggestion.

Drake hesitated, jerking his head to the side to get the hair out of his eyes, “You’re going to kill me, why should I trust you?”

“Because Sebby dear is hard as a rock, and needs to get off. And I might be insane, but I understand the value of a. Good. Solid. Orgasm.” He spoke the last words with the stout tone of a stern fatherly lecture, then devolved into petty exasperation, “Christ, even the Americans give their death sentence prisoners one last meal. Consider this yours.”

Drake looked at the ground, deliberating. Finally, he muttered, “Yeah, okay.”

“Say it louder, Ickle-Drakey-kins”

“Okay.”

“The whole sentence, like a big boy. What. Do. You. Want?” The quiet threat in Jim’s voice carried throughout the meat locker.

“I want him to fuck me.” Drake shot eyes towards Seb, who’d lost his black thermal to cleaning off his face, and was standing in a tight white vest that hugged his fine, taut muscle definition.

Seb walked over to Drake, tying his wrists together with a zip tie before lowering the meat hook holding him up. Drake whined in pained relief as the feeling came back to his arms. “Bend over, hold onto the rope.” Seb ordered, stepping behind him.

Much to Drake’s obvious relief, Seb began slowly, running his fingers down Drake’s sides, and felt the young man shudder. He pressed up against Drake, pressing the hardness of his arousal into Drake’s backside. Seb brought a strong arm around Drake’s chest and bit faintly into his neck, aiming for arousal, not pain. There would be plenty of time later for the delightful sounds of his fiery screams.

Slowly, Seb slid his hand down over the firm erection in the blond’s trousers, and Drake moaned involuntarily.

Jim smiled, “See boy, see what you’ve been missing? It’s a damned shame you couldn’t have come to me about Daddy dearest, instead of the elder Holmes.” Jim eyes widen with a manic glint, “Then Daddy’d be dead and you’d be fucking any gorgeous fucking man you could find. But instead, you’ll be fucking Seb, then fucking dead.”

Jim giggled at his own joke, and Drake whimpered, a cross between fear and Seb slowly and sensually sliding his trousers and pants down. He peppered kisses up and down the captive’s pale, white thighs, and Drake let out another whine, non-verbally begging for more.

Seb pulled Drake’s hips towards him, so that he was half bent, his restrained hands holding on tightly to the rope above the hook. Drake naturally spread his legs, eager for Seb to continue, and Jim chuckled. “Such a gorgeous arse you’ve got, and so responsive. Seb and I could have played with you for years. Shame, that.”

Seb huffed a deep laugh that echoed through his throat as he pulled a tube of lubricant from his pocket. Drenching his fingers, he slickly circled Drake’s tense hole with one finger, and lightly ghosted his other hand over the long, thin erection. As Drake relaxed into Seb’s touch, Seb slipped one, then two fingers to open him up. After several long minutes of Drake panting, he finally begged Seb, “More, oh fuck, give me more.”

“Good.” Jim cooed, “I’m glad you’re finally enjoying yourself.” He turned to Seb, “Show him what it means to be fucked. Don’t hurt him yet, but I want him weak kneed and in tears by the time you’re done with him.”

Seb growled his understanding, and slipped a third finger inside Drake for just a few strokes, before lathering his cock with the lubricant dripping down his fingers, and nudging up against Drake’s arse. “Tell me you want it,” he ordered, “I won’t do it if you won’t tell me.”

“Goddammit, fuck me already! Please, Seb, please!”

Seb smacked the white flesh of his arse hard and watched as it turned red underneath his palm. “You don’t get to call me Seb, you turncoat cunt, call me Sir.”

“Yes Sir, please Sir,” Drake begged, and Seb thrust into the young man in one slick slide, as Drake cried out in overwhelming sensation. Seb took nearly no time at all to pull all the way out and drive himself back into the gaping slick hole, and Drake puffed out a half cry as the air was propelled forcefully from his lungs. Seb set a demanding, relentless pace, adjusting the blond’s hips until Drake yelped at the frequent brushes against his prostate.

“Please, Sir, touch me, Sir!”

Jim spoke up, as he circled the spectacle before him, and barked out a vicious, “NO!” With a softer tone, he approached Drake, and ran a finger down his jaw, “I meant it; I want to see you in tears. I want the gratification to overwhelm you, to drive you out of your mind with ecstasy. I want you broken in pleasure, before I break you in pain.”

Seb pounded harder, occasionally disrupting his own rhythm to slow his impending orgasm. Drake’s whimpers grew loud and pathetic, and he muttered choruses of ‘Please, sir, fuck sir, please.” Seb took the opportunity to take one hand off his captive’s hips, and curve it around his neck, tightening his grip just enough to threaten strangulation, but not enough to cut off oxygen. Drake’s whining became even more desperate, and he let out little gasps of delight that grew louder and vibrated through his body, until finally, he bucked under Seb, and with a last, “Oh Jesus, fuck!” he came untouched, tears streaming down his cheeks as he sobbed his relief.

With only a few well aimed, deep thrusts, Seb grunted as he emptied himself in Drake’s twitching hole. Once his dick had stopped throbbing, Seb pulled out, watching his come drip from the reddened abused arse in front of him.

Drake dropped weakly, barely held by his own legs, straining to keep his weight on his wrist restraints. He panted blissfully, and sighed a pleasant, “Thank you, Sir. Both of you.”

“How polite!” Jim exaggerated his approval, and walked over to Drake, half naked, leaking come and blushed red with satisfaction. He smacked the young man hard on the face, and Drake cried out from the pain.

“String him up, Seb.” Jim ordered, his tone in wicked contrast to his friendly demeanor before. “I’ve been far too kind a master, now it’s time for you to die.”

Drake struggled as the hook rose slightly, and Seb removed his clothing, leaving him naked, save the ejaculate dripping down the inside of his thighs. He felt a stirring of terror, but the overwhelming pleasure of being taken was still floating in his consciousness, dulling his fear slightly.

Drake heard the crinkle of wrapping paper shuffling about, and the pleasure began to fade in the realization that the tools of his captor’s trade were soon to be released. The threat of death, which had previously flitted about his head like a gnat, was quickly growing, becoming the jaws of a shark, all too real and too terrifying. He held back a squeak, willing himself not to grovel for mercy. He’d already been debased enough; to beg for release from the pain would be undignified. The metal wheels of the cart echoed loudly against the tile, as the implements of his demise came closer.

Drake forced himself to look; to steel himself against the torture he would endure. He peeled his eyes opened, and at the sight on the metal cart before him, barked out a harsh laugh. On the cart lay six large peppermint sticks, each one sharpened to a point; and the image of Father Christmas wielding a prison shiv popped into his mind’s eye, causing the laughter to continue, to his complete mortification.

Jim joined in, giggling with a terrifyingly wide grin as he picked up a peppermint stick and flipped around in his hand, catching by the wide, dull end each time. He turned to Drake, taking the point and running it up the young man’s thigh to dig the point into his testicles. The blond’s laughter ceased, as his breath caught and held, afraid to move even a centimeter. Death was one thing, mutilation of one’s genitalia was another.

“I know, they look a bit silly,” Jim prodded Drake playfully, “but they are quite… _effective_.” At his last word, he thrust the sharp point of the peppermint stick forcefully into the soft flesh of the young man’s belly, right at the navel. He screamed, as Jim let go of the stick and it remained embedded in his abdomen.

“The trick is, see, that if I remove the stick, you die much more quickly from blood loss. This way, you get to feel the pain and agony until eventually shock sets in. Takes much longer. Much more entertaining for me. Well, me and Seb.” Jim smiled fondly towards his right hand, and Seb nodded with little more than a smirk.

Jim took another candy from the tray, and circled Drake, whose screams weakened to pathetic sobs. Jim traced his captive’s torso with the sharp point again, watching the muscles twitch and dance as they tried to predict where the next puncture would land. With one rapid movement, Jim stabbed the peppermint into the young man’s flank, and listened to Drake’s screams renew.

“Screams have a certain melody, did you know? A mathematical pattern, a chaotic rhythm; they’re beautiful. Each person’s screams differ, and screams of passion differ from fear and from pain. Seven billion people in the world, and while I haven’t had the chance to test them all, the sample I’ve reviewed suggests that each one is delightfully unique.”

Jim sighed dreamily and flipped two peppermint sticks into his hands, tossing them back and forth from left to right. “So where next? I know how to end you, but I’d like to play a bit more. Must watch out for bone, it’s a bit too hard and the candy doesn’t compete. Ah! Yes!” Jim had circled his way back around Drake, and slapped his arse hard, the palm print making a pair with Seb’s earlier discipline. Drake squealed as the motion aggravated the two shivs already buried into his body. Jim, as was the pattern, ran the points, one after another, up the crack of his arse, threatening to impale him, but then in a sudden movement, stabbed the two fleshy globes in the middle of the reddened palm prints, in a symbolic stigmata. At Drake’s subsequent anguished shrieks, Jim performed a tight little pirouette, then raised his arms in a conductor’s mimic, orchestrating the traitor’s howls of agony. The young man sobbed for several minutes, and Jim waited patiently to hear the yelps dissipating into weak whimpers, before deciding on the location of the next two candied daggers.

His captive traitor hanged his head, moaning deeply without ceasing. He seemed to be drifting, letting the pain melt into the beginning stages of shock, and Jim nodded to Seb. With the unspoken command, Seb picked up a syringe, and walked over to Drake. He lifted the young man’s arm, and injected the solution, a bit of pain medication and vasopressors, to quell the symptoms of shock, and bring the blond into full consciousness regarding his current misfortunes.

Within minutes, Drake picked his head up and looked around dumbly, the drugs in his system confusing the pain receptors, and ultimately his cognitive skills. “You’re a dick. Stop killing me,” he slurred, as the slight amount of morphine took the edge of four impaled candy spikes in his body. “Hurts,” he confessed, the sobs ceasing, but the tears still running freely down his face.

“I let it stop hurting soon,” Jim soothed, recognizing that the young man’s walls had fallen, “But not until I frame Daddy dearest for your death. I promised he’d get his, for his bigoted ways, and I didn’t lie. He’ll get the video I recorded of Seb fucking you, and you begging for it. I’ve planted his DNA all over the murder weapons. It will look like an open and shut hate crime. You’ll probably be a martyr in the media, a darling boy with the wicked Papa, and when they raid his house, they’ll find the tape. It’ll be all the evidence they need. And then I’ve cleanly dealt with a bigot and a traitor all in one. You must admit it’s tidier that way. Neat. Spotless. Perfect.”

“Fucking Da. Deserves it. Prick.” Drake understood enough, and Jim was pleased to see that he approved of the plan. He decided to go for the kill shots, and let Drake’s misery eek out him sooner rather than later. Jim ran his hands up the young man’s chest, finding a lovely spot between two ribs. With precision, he lined up the point of the fifth peppermint stick, and with a quick jab of his palm, felt the stick slide between the ribs and into the lung. Drake’s gasping took on a new quality, as the lung began to collapse, the walls surrounding it filling with blood and fluid. Within moments, Jim held the sixth stick, and with deadly accuracy, pierced his captive’s neck, cutting off the air flow as it penetrated the windpipe.

It took less than a minute for Drake to attempt his last breath. Jim felt his pulse weaken under his fingertips, and watched his eyes for the moment the light dimmed, and his captive died before him.

Jim smiled. Drake had provided particularly fascinating entertainment, and he looked forward to setting the scene of his death. Frame the father for the police, but leave no doubt to the Iceman as to the warning _I will find your spies, and I will kill them_. And to be sure the point wasn’t missed; Seb froze the man in a block of ice, and left him on the steps of the Diogenes.

If Mycroft Holmes didn’t understand that message, he didn’t deserve to play.


	21. Consummate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt: Stockings  
> Beta'd by Janto321. Thanks!

Sally begrudgingly got in the car beside Lestrade. She hated that she was the one to suggest they talk to Holmes. She hated confessing any dependence on the dick that made her job significantly harder. The paperwork alone was enough to drive her mad, but this case, where the children were missing at Christmastime… Even she accepted that Holmes’ particular brand of genius was worth suffering through if those kids could come home for Christmas.

Lestrade parked in front of the building, and to her surprise, pulled out a key to let himself in. She knew that Holmes was more tolerant of Lestrade than many other of their coworkers, but she didn’t realize he’d been granted a key to their home.

 Sally followed close behind as Lestrade walked up the stairs. He walked in without knocking, and John, sitting in a lounge chair, just offered a “Hey, Greg” and went back to reading his paper.

“Sherlock in?” Lestrade asked, and John just pointed down the hall.

“Mind Palace?”

“Yeah, he’s probably got another 20-30 minutes.”

“Tea?”

“Already made, there’s even an extra cup if you’d like one, Sergeant Donovan.” Watson addressed her presence for the first time.

“Thanks,” she offered, pleasantly surprised. She knew John Watson was more considerate than Holmes, but since that wasn’t a difficult requirement to fulfill, she was pleased by his thoughtfulness. Lestrade strode into the kitchen, opening just the right cupboards, and pulling out her preferred cream, and a bit of honey. Lestrade seemed to navigate the kitchen with practiced ease, and she focused elsewhere to ignore his familiarity.

And then she saw it; three stockings on the mantle. ‘Sherlock’ and ‘John’ and ‘Greg’ they were labeled. She took a sip of the tea Lestrade offered her, and then had to ask, “Why do you have a stocking here?”

“Ah” Lestrade answered, taking a sip of tea. Sally recognized it as a diversion tactic, but waited for her boss to continue. “I live here.”

“You live here? With the freak and his pet?”

Lestrade cleared his throat, and calmly replied, “I live here, with my partners. Both of them.”

Sally choked on her tea momentarily, until she regained her equilibrium, “Both of them? You mean you’re sleeping with Holmes _and_ Watson?”

“Mostly John. But when Sherlock decides to grace us with his presence, it’s spectacular.” Lestrade winked at Watson, who smirked back.

“It’s a perfect arrangement,” Watson offered, then inquired, “If she knows now, can I get a kiss?”

Lestrade walked over, and slowly caressing John’s jaw, softly and sensually kissed his lover. John sighed into his affections, and when they broke away, offered, “He’ll be ready in ten, but you can update me while we wait.”

Sally blinked several times, processing the new knowledge. Then she sat on the Chesterfield, and with a deep breath, briefed Watson on the case. It didn’t really matter; her boss’ relationship with consultants. He was the consummate professional. She trusted Lestrade, even when she was skeptical of Holmes.

And honestly, the more she deliberated, the more she accepted that their polygamous relationship was likely ideal. Sherlock was probably disinterested in most sexual activity, and Lestrade and Watson could fulfill themselves, while still loving and adoring the sociopathic detective.

If only, she thought, she could find herself such a perfect arrangement.


	22. T'was the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anti-Christmas Prompt - T'was the Night Before Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to beautifullyheeled for the beta!

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the manor

John and Sherlock were exploring their bedside manner.

Their clothes were tossed ‘bout the room without care,

As they embraced each other in their tawdry affair.

The men snogged hotly, all teeth and all tongue,

Their cocks stirred quickly, the two men undone.

The raven haired groaned, too loud for the room,

And the blond covered his mouth, his breath he consumed.

Out on the stair, footsteps echoed the hall

With the tap of an umbrella, fuck bugger all

With silence the two men froze in their tracks

Their hands gripping tight on the flesh of their backs

And down on the bed, they fell with a fluff

And Sherlock, with John’s mouth on him, gave a quick huff

The moon shone high in the window above,

Highlighted the pale skin of Sherlock, John’s love

And to John’s wondering eyes did appear,

But Sherlock’s thick cock, pre-cum dripped and smeared.

And John smiled, his cock lively and thick,

And he knew that sweet Sherlock must be craving his dick.

He held himself back, lest too quickly he came

And he frantically whispered, calling his lover by name.

“Oh! Fantastic! Oh Brilliant, Oh Clever you are!

You’re wonderful and gorgeous, the best of men, by far!

Beautiful and smart and delicious, I beg,

That you open yourself, and spread those sweet legs.

Oh fuck, sweet Jesus, Oh fuck that’s tight!”

Whispered John as he took in the sight

Of his gorgeous love, as he mounted the man

And slid in his cock gently, amazed that he can

Even hold back, the vulnerable bloke open wide

Underneath him, as his cock made its slick slide

Sherlock’s bare form beneath him, muscle and brawny

Shouting, “Oh, please, fuck me harder, Johnny!”

John thrust and he dived, so deep into his love

That he felt like the two of them fit like a glove

His eyes watched John, glowing and dark with desire

His face so flushed, rosy pink, hot with fire

His tight little cupid’s bow rounded; a sweet little ‘O’

And his brows twitched tightly with each desperate stroke

Sherlock’s words held tight clenched behind teeth

And John felt behind him for the ribbon adorning the wreath

He wrapped it ‘round Sherlock’s head, with silencing bite

And thrust in much harder with all of his might

Sherlock squealed; the ribbon muffling the sound

As into his arse, John continued to pound

With a grip on his cock and thumb flick over the head

John made Sherlock’s face burn a bright festive red

He spoke not a word, but continued to jerk

Until he filled up sweet Sherlock with a groan and smirk

The twitch of John’s cock sent Sherlock aflame

And he pulsed thick ropes on his chest as he came

With a sigh and a moan, John slid out of his love

And looked at the man he’s always in awe of

And Sherlock stared back as though he’d found a clue

Then whispered through the gag, ‘I love you, too.”


End file.
